Furloughed artist, explores disengagment from ‘all that’ and engagement in ‘all this’.


On reflection, my Lockdown project: Questing for Forest Cove ended up being about an old wall.

I don’t remember why I ever looked at google maps that day but it led me to go in search of a ‘way’. A well worn path which would take me somewhere; presumable the beach.

The ‘way’ I had misidentified on the map turned out to be an old slate wall; a boundary marker or stock proofing from the past, which had eroded and slipped from old age and lack of maintenance, into a brilliant gleaming mirror of rock for the satellite camera to pick up so sharply, so enticingly. So misleadingly.

In my pursuit I found a deer land. A creche for fauns. I intruded into a  place where my presence was causing damage and distress.  I won’t go back. I prefer to know it’s there than to be there.

The thing that haunts me is what that wall means.

In places the cliff edge has eaten in to it. From google maps you can see it’s original trajectory and the fresh landslips which have caused the cliff to take bites out of it; triangular wedges slipped to sea, of what was once good pasture. Even habitable land.

I mean I know about erosion, I went to school, but suddenly this non place seems so much more tangible, as if its negative is suspended there in the air above the glittering sea; suspended in recent past. This is the truly inaccessible land. No one is there, not even deer.


“Doggerland was the land that once connected England to Continental Europe, before it was lost beneath rising seas around 6500 BC. […] People lived there, hunted animals, dropped tools […] In the era of border walls and Brexit, I find the existence of Doggerland soothing to contemplate: a corrective to triumphalist ‘our island story’ nationalism.” p.135 Olivia Laing. ‘Funny Weather – Art in an Emergency’. 2020.

History is a weak defence to hate and ‘us against them’ rhetoric, and yet history is not so much an escape as a balm. In the face of so much chaos; the day to day mayhem of conflicting COVID government guideline announcements, state violence at BLM protests, and neo-fascist governments exposing their corruptions like it doesn’t even matter, we are being daily bombarded so relentlessly that there is no way to emotionally reflect before the next bulletin, let alone rationalise or begin to construct alternatives or responses.

History feels irrelevant in times of violence and global chaos, or like if it has relevance it needs to signify something more than an escape or pastime, like it has a duty to act as a defiance. I guess
a) history’s defiance needs to be the offering of proof that continuity exists and

b) history needs to make space and time slippery; opening borders between here and there, us and them, then, now, and the future.

The knowledge of this sparkling missing Doggerland that floats here in this thin air above the sea, brings the people of the past closer somehow. The ancestors and the spirits. You might think that nighttime was best for seeing ghosts, but I’d argue that you can see them better shimmering and silhouetted by broad summer sunlight.

That slate wall bordering Doggerland with Devon lead me somewhere other than the beach. Letting it go to the dogs is not an option, reparation of some kind is the destination.


I don’t know if this was a good use of time/paint.

The plan is to send hand-painted postcards to everyone I can’t see but would have done, or would have intended to, if it wasn’t for coronavirus.

I’ve made sure to use my fingers to leave a physical trace of myself. I chose Start Point because
a) I can see it from here and
b) it’s on of my favourite places.

One weird side effect of this is that I can’t help imagining them passing from hand-to-hand and becoming dangerous; like vehicles for the virus which I am sending with love, to loved ones.

I will write WARNINGs on them.

Painting with this conveyor-belt-style method is new/weird for me.
I know it’s a traditional means of making commercial art.

I believe I have great-uncles from the Torbay region who used to paint landscapes like this for a portion of their income. They were, of course, of much higher quality than these postcards. They sold them in Boots.


I got told to “eat the world”. I’d planned to go to Glasgow, or was it Mexico? or praps I’ll just stay home.
Drowning in lungs, like little pockets of pacific.

City folks come down here wearing country clothes. I’ve got red earth in my teeth holes. It scares me half to death that it’s all here, going on, all at once; Paignton Pier and rain out to sea and people, somewhere, sitting in the sun.
Cold summer breeze through net curtains, knock the horse ornaments off the window sill and I’m well aware I’ve got a skull behind my smile.

My home falls to metal and dust; bricks and cement over-rated.

For no reason they took my bike to the skip while I was out – my flying machine – the world expands, streets open into fields peppered with dog shit and stones that look like bone.

Old idols disappoint, and my long hair, slick with blood, crunches under the scissor blades.

All my drawings are for sale.

I haven’t been anywhere much. I stayed on this cold unloving island with glitter on my finger nails and mud under them. Clouds race like liquid landscapes.

Wrestling with exhaustion. Too tired to wake.

Waiting in car parks, witness to petty crime. Smoking dope and drinking vodka in the potato fields. I saw them all, yellow floating fat on the whites of their eyes.
UHT milk and memories of all the old times gone by, drinking in the pubs and walking in the woods and laughing.

Campsites are the wilderness of this wild far-flung fucking landscape, with mowed edges and recycling bins.

The smell of cow shit can still bring it all back.
They took the farm, where’s there to go?

At least we now get some peace.